every me loves every you
by paradisdesbilles
Summary: Collection of modern AU drabbles
1. midnight train going anywhere

#1: on a train together and the train is stopped in the middle of nowhere for some reason AU  
(they say to write about what you know so I wrote about shitty French trains.)  
(this is a thing that really happened to me a few years back. the camel trivia also happened. wish I was kidding.)

* * *

Having to chase someone across the border happens rarely, if not ever, and it always ends in Canada or, if she's lucky, Mexico. So having to chase someone in Europe of all places? Jack-fucking-pot. It feels like holidays more than anything, those few days spent in London – even if she spends them on her laptop in a hotel room and not outside, visiting the National Gallery or going to see Les Mis. Still the change of scenery doesn't hurt – the enormous paycheck waiting for her neither, nor the fact that her boss pays for everything from hotel to food. So when she finds that the guy moved to France of all places, well, she's not one to complain.

The train, on the other hand, she does complain about. She's not used to it, more comfortable with her frequent-flyer miles and carry-on bag than with the overpriced mini-bar and freezing air conditioning. Not to mention they stopped at Marne-la-Vallée and now her car is full of Mickey Mouse balloons and over-excited children after a whole day spent at Disneyland. She tries to burry herself in a book – something by some August Booth guy that hits too close to home for her to be truly comfortable in her reading – but no amount of music can tune down the low yells and laughs. How great.

It's late and she's tired and all she wants is for the train to finally arrive at the station so she can go to her hotel and sleep until morning – she needs her eight hours, the criminal will wait.

But, of course – of freaking course – things don't go as planned.

She notices the train slowing down for long minutes until it stops altogether, the lights flickering for a second or two before switching off. Cue to scared high-pitched screams from the brats. She tears her earphones off, sitting straighter in her seat as she cranes her neck for an employee – where's the guy with the stupid cap that checked her ticket an hour before

"Freaking great."

She realises she's said that out loud when the guy sitting by the other side of the aisle starts chuckling. She glances at him, sitting alone at a four-person table, his laptop open to some Excel page in front of him.

"First train journey across France?" She notices the Irish accent first, the smirk next. "You never forget your first."

She's tired and annoyed and the kids won't stop making noise, but the stranger's grin is contagious so Emma finds herself smiling back. The fact he's quite handsome helps too. "So the rumours are true."

"France: good cuisine, shitty railway. Yup." The 'p' pops in his mouth, tongue against his teeth mesmerizing her for a second there.

The lights flicker back to life, but the train doesn't budge, having her sigh deeply. Whatever is happening, it looks like it's not going to happen any time soon. She pressed her nose to the window, as if hoping to see something outside, but she only finds the never-ending French countryside, sun setting slowly but surely. Because being in the middle of nowhere is obviously the cherry on the top. A sigh escapes her lips as she leans back against her seat, eye closing on their own accord.

"Don't worry," Tall dark and handsome says, "I'm sure we'll be back on tracks in a tick."

She rolls her head to the side to look at him, frowning. "Used to it, huh?"

"Aye. My society is based in London but I need to travel to Marseille more often than not. Seen a lot of strikes and accidents and late trains through the years. Even a camel on the rails, once."

She grins at the anecdote but, still. "Why don't you fly? Surely it must be quicker. And cheaper."

"Afraid of flying," he shrugs.

She grins, almost mockingly, but he only pouts at her instead of taking offense. "I'm Emma, by the way. Emma Swan."

"Killian Jones. And what are you doing so far from home, Emma Swan?"

Her name rolls on his tongue in an almost pornographic way, blue eyes sparkling with mischief as his lips curl into yet another smirk. She tries not to be affected by this, because it is quite obvious that he's doing it on purpose and she doesn't have time for players like him – tries, and fails miserably. So miserably that it takes her a moment before remembering there was a question hidden there somewhere.

"I'm on a job. Bail bondsperson."

His pout can only be described as impressed – they always are, as far as her job is concerned, never imagining for a second there that someone like her captures criminals for a living. She wouldn't be good at it if her looks weren't deceiving, after all.

"The guy is going out of his way not to be caught, that's for sure."

"Tell me about it."

She checks her phone only to notice they've been still for ten minutes already, when an employee finally makes his way through the aisle. Killian quickly catches him by the sleeve with a polite smile.

"Excusez-moi, que se passe-t-il?" he asks in a perfect French. _Show-off_.

The other man answers, and Emma immediately regrets taking Spanish instead of French in high school for she doesn't understand a single word uttered. Thanks god for bilingual Sexy Irish, who turns to her once they're done talking, a small frown on his brows. Uh-oh.

"There's a problem with an old lady. Something about an oxygen mask and not enough air tanks for the whole trip. They're waiting for the firemen to bring some more but since we're in the middle of nowhere… Could be minutes, could be hours."

Her eyes widen before she groans, letting her head fall on the small table in front of her, bumping it several times. The idiot only laughs at her antics.

"Hey, I've got the five first episodes of Black Sails on my computer, feel like watching it?"

"What's that?" she asks, forehead still against the cold table – strangely soothing.

The grin he offers her is simply wicked. "Show about pirates. The main lady looks a bit like you."

She sighs once more before shrugging. If they're stuck here for hours, she might as well keep occupied, and that Killian dude is more entertaining that her book ever will be. So she just shoves her stuffs in her handbag before switching places to sit next to him. He doesn't waste time before starting the first episode.

It is gruesome and bloody and all kinds of awesome – and, yes, that Eleanor Guthries kicks ass, there is no denying it – but the funnier part is their comments, laughing and snarking at the screen at all the right moments. Surprisingly, she has fun with this almost stranger, as they share the same weird sense of humour and love for violent shows. They even snicker like teenagers when one of the mothers ask them, on a wrathful tone, if they could tune it down because _there are children here_ and the thing they're watching is _highly inappropriate_. Killian shoots her the V sign when she walks back to her own seat, and Emma has to bite on her hand not to laugh out loud.

(She can't remember the last time she laughed that much, that carefree, can't remember ever feeling so at ease with a perfect stranger. It is as nice as it is disconcerting, for Emma isn't used to it. So she glances at him from the corner of her eyes when he's not looking, wondering what is so special about him, why she feels so drawn to him for a reason she can't understand.)

(He glances at her when she's not looking, tiny smile on his lips.)

They're about to start the third episode when Killian glances at the window, before focusing longer on what is happening outside. "Finally," he says and, since they obviously left their maturity behind the moment they decided to chat, he leans against the window and her against his side to catch a glance at the mess outside. The blue and red light of the fire truck, people coming and going in the night. It's done in less than five minutes before the truck drives away – another ten minutes and the train is moving again, someone apologizing for the delay in the speakers.

"Well…" Killian says, and she doesn't miss the dejection tone or the pity party on his face. She grins and hits 'enter' for the episode to start. He grins back.

(There's yet another hour before they make it to the station, and she falls asleep on his shoulder at some point only to have him waking her up when they're finally in Lyon. She rubs her eyes, not caring if she ends looking like a panda, smiling sadly at him. But he missed his connection to Marseille and the next train is in the morning so, really, all she can do at this point is drag him to her hotel room.)

(He leaves at the crack of dawn with one last kiss as he gives her his business card, cell phone number scribbled on the back. "Call me," he says, even if he knows as well as she does that nothing could ever happen between them.)

(Back in New York, she calls anyway. "I've always wanted to visiting Ireland." She can practically hear his grin at the other end of the line.)


	2. wingman

"Hey beautiful. Can I buy you a drink?"

She tries really hard not to roll her eyes – really, she does – but can't help it, because she's barely been sitting for ten seconds and already some frat boy comes to annoy her. Can't a girl have a break for a minute there, seriously? But she knows those guys, knows them all too well, so she forces a humourless smile on her lips as she turns to look at him. Yep, definitely some drunk frat boy, with the stupid cap and stupid hoodie and stupid grin – just her luck.

"No, thank you."

"Oh come on, darling. Just one drink."

The stubbornness doesn't surprise her all that much – she's seen worse, sadly – but it still annoys her and she mentally curses her friends for being too busy dancing to help her out on that one. She curses Mary Margaret for thinking going out and celebrating the end of term would be a good idea, because it isn't, and here she is, flirted at by a joke of a human being who can't take a hint.

"I said _no, thank you_."

"So defensive," he says, ignoring her grimace as his hand finds her thigh – for a second there, all she wants is to chop it off. "Got a boyfriend?"

That's it. She's about to give him a piece of her mind – how she's not someone's _propriety_ and she shouldn't have some dude pissing on her leg for other dudes to understand they're _not fucking welcomed_ – when the hand is swatted away and another man places himself between her and the dimwit, casually leaning against the bar counter. She blinks up at the newcomer – dark hair, blue eyes, shit-eating grin – before a loud sigh escapes her lips but…

"Sorry, traffic was a bitch. You all right?"

She blinks again, mouth opening in confusion, both at the sudden appearance and unexpected Irish accent – and gosh, he _winks_ at her, what even? But still, Emma's first thought isn't to shrug him off the way she wanted to do with the other dude, which is even more confusion in itself. And speaking of the devil…

"Excuse me, dude, but I was there first so…"

The way he glares at the frat boy can only be described as feral, wrinkling his nose with quiet anger. The other man takes a step back – but only one, what an idiot.

"Excuse me, _mate_, but I've know Allison since we were babes so I'm pretty sure I was there first."

Her eyes widen for a second because, seriously, why did she do to deserve those two idiots – that is, until she realises he used some made-up name for her. It clicks then, and she can't help but scoff at her improvised knight in shining armour. The whole thing is ridiculous, and she's not quite drunk enough yet for that kind of shenanigans, so she downs her drink before patting Sexy Irish on the arm.

"Calm down, James. The guy was leaving anyway."

She pointedly looks at the frat boy then, who _finally_ decides this is a lost battle and goes back to his herd of idiots. Emma sighs loudly as she turns back to the counter and catches the bartender's attention, having her glass refilled in a matter of seconds. It's only when she's bringing her drink to her lips that she notices Sexy Irish hasn't moved, ordering a drink of his own.

She frowns at him, confused. Emma isn't foreign to that little trick to get rid of clingy guys, and Mary Margaret has helped her out more than once, providing much needed distraction – hell, David even pretended to be her boyfriend once. But coming from some random stranger? Who didn't go all touchy-feely on her in the process? Who didn't even try to force a thanks out of her right after? Damn right it leaves her confused and (charmingly) surprised.

"I'm Killian, by the way," he tells her between two sips of his rum, eyes twinkling as he might notice the stupor written all over her face. He laughs. "Sorry, but I knew he wouldn't leave you alone so… I'm actually doing this with my cousin Ruby quite often, I know how to recognize the signs by now."

He nods to something above her shoulder, and Emma turns around to find a leggy brunette grinding against… well, Victor, apparently. Very much willingly this time, she notices, as her blond friend looks like he just won the jackpot and doesn't believe his luck. She scoffs before turning back to look at her saviour with a small smile that grows bigger with the contagious grin he offers her. Stupid good-looking idiot.

"Emma."

"Well, it was nice meeting you, Emma."

Her name on his lips, even tuned down by the loud music of the club, sounds like warm honey, and she finds herself biting her lip – which she quickly hides with yet another sip of whiskey. Killian only wriggles his eyebrows at her before taking his glass to leave – and gosh, he's not even trying a move, like some sort of old-school gentleman. So she acts on instinct. Grabs his arm. Pulls him back next to her.

"Can you stay? Just in case he comes back?"

If he reads the blatant lie in her voice and on her face, he doesn't point it out.

…

From this point, it becomes some kind of habit.

"Oh god, Emma, you will _never_ believe what… who's the guy?"

"Lass, where did you go? I was looking for you everywhere."

Somewhat, and to the general surprise of no one, cousin Ruby and Victor become an item, which results in the brunette spending more time with the group – which leads to more partying, apparently. And, every time without failing, Killian shows up out of nowhere when she's being hit on unwillingly. Emma is surprised at how _not annoyed_ she is with the whole thing – she can take care of herself, thank you very much – but instead is very amused by his antics and the excuses he finds every time.

The stories get better and more complex as time passes by, accumulating little details and fake shared memories. Their mothers are best friends and went through pregnancy together – they grew up in the same neighbourhood until Killian went back to Ireland when he was eight, hence the accent – they've always been best friends – his car is awfully slow and he's always stuck in traffic for some reason. Emma would never admit it out loud, because it's still all about deflecting misogynists, but she has fun with him. He makes her laugh with a joke or a wink, sometimes both, and forces her to dance sometimes, when one of the guys really insists on staying by her side.

"I kind of liked this one…" she says as Killian watches a guy running away, smirk on his lips.

"No, love. This one wasn't for you."

…

"I think you should let the lady decide for herself."

"And I think you should take a hint and leave, mate."

Killian may be all broad shoulders and lean muscles, but the guy is huge, probably the university's quarterback if his jacket is telling, so Emma's eyes widen as he takes a step forwards with a sneer, nose almost touching. She wants to pull him away, because now is obviously not the time or place to go all peacock on someone, but she doesn't move, simply stares at the scene unfolding in front of her, stares at Killian's dangerous grin.

Oddly turned on.

"Playing nice guy for her because she won't fuck you, huh?"

_This is going to end in a_… She doesn't have time to finish her thought before a fist is flying, landing on the guy's nose with the characterised 'crack' of broken bones. A gasp escapes her lips as Killian receives a punch of his own – it's all Victor and David need to jump in, quickly followed by Robin, against the jocks.

One black eye, one opened lip and several bruises later, they're all kicked out of the club by a pissed-off owner.

Killian just grins at her.

"You're a fucking idiot, Jones."

…

Ignoring the careful glances the bartender sends their way every so often, Emma shamelessly stares at Killian – the still-open wound on his lip from biting on it like a five year old, the fading bruise on his cheekbone turning to a pale yellow, the stupid mope of hair falling on his forehead. She stares at his Adam's apple as it bobs up and down when he sips his rum, stares at the way his long fingers flex around the glass, stares at his too-blue too-intense eyes.

She's not even subtle about it. Fuck subtlety.

"Something you want to ask, love?"

He doesn't even glance at her as he asks, just keep looking right in front of him at the many bottles of alcohol lining on the wall. It's a quiet night, what with being in the middle of final exams and all, and the first time he joins her at the bar without having to get rid of another man first. The whole thing is unsettling in its novelty, but not unwelcomed, and Emma finds herself frowning at him.

"Yeah. No, I mean…" She coughs, takes a sip of whiskey. "Why do you always let me buy my own drinks?"

That's what makes him finally look at her, eyebrow shooting up with a frown of his own – how he manages to do that, she'll never know. He stays silent for long seconds, just staring at her like he wants to read her thoughts, or her soul. The frown deepens before he shakes his head with a hollow laugh.

"What do you want from me, Emma?" His voice is cold, his eyes serious. "Because I don't want to be one of those fucking losers stupid enough to force beautiful women into accepting drinks. I'm not quite that desperate yet. So no, Emma, I won't buy you a drink, because I still have some self-respect, thank you."

Her jaw falls on its own accord, and she simple gapes at him as she tries to wrap her mind around his words. "Is it about what the guy said the other day? About fucking me?"

He winces, and it's enough for her to feel stupidly self-absorbed. Of course it isn't about her, why would it be, guys flirting with her like they would do any woman at a bar doesn't suddenly makes her the centre of the whole universe… But she notices his grimace is not of disgust, but of pain, and it makes her gasp.

(A small part of her thinks that Killian Jones doesn't fuck – he makes love.)

"Oh my god, _it is_."

He goes back to staring at the bottles while she keeps staring at him, and she's the one frowning now as a hundred question stubble in her mind – how? when? _why her_? It doesn't make sense, but neither roleplaying with a stranger in a crowded bar did. Except he's not a stranger anymore and he _likes_ her, her cheeks burning at the mere thought.

On impulse, she bottoms up her whiskey.

"My glass is empty," she says. "I'd like it not to be."

She's obvious in her intentions but she doesn't care because, for the first time that night, a smile slowly blossoms on his lips.

"If the lady insists…"


	3. please don't stop the music

The only reason Emma even goes to the activities fair in the first place is to escape her dorm and her new roommate – not that there is anything wrong with Kathryn, mind you, she seems like a nice girl and all, but Emma just _doesn't_ do socialising. Which makes attending the activities fair all the more ironical as she has no plan whatsoever to enrol in any of the campus clubs – her plan is actually quite simple: go to her classes, study, have good grades. Easy peasy. Making friends will wait until never, because she's obviously not here for that.

That is, until some petite brunette with doe eyes and a kind smile clings to her with big words about the _Storybrooke Sirens_ – what even? – and how they need new members and oh you look so lovely do you sing or at least harmonize? Emma blinks, twice. First at the pixie brunette then at the banner above the stand of her club.

"Synchronised nerd singing, really? Yeah, no, I'm not your girl."

The girl is about to go full puppy eyes on her when someone else appears out of freaking nowhere, jumping on her back, one arm wrapped around Emma's shoulder like she _belongs_ there. The blonde is so stunned she doesn't even have the reflex of shrugging off the newcomer, instead watches her leaning over her shoulder, black hair fanning between them, wolfish grin on her lips.

"Hey! Is it here for the all-girl a cappella band?"

The other girl doesn't jump on the occasion – she pounces. "Yes! I'm Mary Margaret and this –" she points to another brunette behind her "is Regina. We're the only two members of the Sirens left so we're looking for new members. Repetitions, concerts, competitions… You name it."

The one called Regina joins them soon enough – she's aloof where Mary Margaret is a ball of energy, and Emma wonders how those two very different persons can get along. Not that she has time to think about it, because the girl still leaning against her back, Ruby apparently, shoots them a hundred questions excitingly, to which the two other girls answer as thoroughly and patiently as possible. Not that Emma cares, waiting for the right moment to run away from those crazy people – but still, she finds herself strangely fascinated by the passion they can pour in singing without backup instruments. People are just weird sometimes.

"Hey, Sirens," some guy should from across the quad, catching the attention of the four of them. "Don't bother, you know we'll beat you anyway. _Again_."

"Shut up, Robin. Nobody cares about your merry band of losers," Regina shouts back.

The guy shrugs it off with a loud laugh, his friends already having a go at Pharrell Williams' _Happy_. It soon catches everybody's attention, people stopping to watch them perform and, Emma has to admit, it looks good enough – far from the image of uptight choir kids she had in mind. In fact, they seem to have a lot of fun, dancing and singing and flirting with their female crowd.

"Those are Robin and the _Merry Men_. Wish I was kidding. Band of losers."

"Regina has a toner for Robin," Mary Margaret adds with a grin.

"Am not! Anyway, there are four different a cappella groups on campus. Us, them, and two others nobody cares about. The Merry Men have beaten us to the regionals three years in a row, but we're planning to change that this year."

Emma doesn't dare asking what a _toner_ is. Instead, she keeps watching the guys, how easily they move, how they grin and laugh with each other. It's stupid, really, because she's a sing-in-the-shower-only kind of girl, and she's never been in any club before but it kind of… makes her want to?

(So much for not socializing, really.)

"So you're saying that if we join, we're the first in line to crush those dudes' ego?"

They don't answer – they simply grin at her.

…

(Turns out a toner is a musical boner. Go figure.)

(Also turns out she isn't half bad at that synchronised nerd singing stuff.)

…

Between her classes and the Sirens rehearsals, Emma's life becomes busy in the blink of an eye. If the essays she has to write don't knock her out, then the dancing and singing does, leaving both her mind and body empty and sore. Which is all kinds of great to fall asleep in a second, mind you, but not all that great if she ever wants to catch her breath. But it's a good kind of busy, one that she's craved and, for the first time in forever, she actually manages to make some friends.

Even if she's not on the best of terms with Regina – some friendships are just not meant to happen – she gets along well enough with the other girls – Ariel, and Bella, and Aurora, and Mulan, and that girl everyone calls Tink (she's yet to know her real name). But mostly with Mary Margaret and Ruby, the three of them somewhat close by now, even outside of the band. They eat tacos together on Mondays and watch movies on Fridays, and Ruby _insists_ on doing their nails every weekend – the casual friendship between girls Emma is so not used to.

All in all, Emma falls into an easy pattern of a life, and she surprises herself by enjoying it. The girl talks she could do without, though – it's not something she's comfortable with, especially since her social life is an interstellar void. But that's how she learns more about Regina's crush on Robin – that's been going on for two years, apparently – and about Mary Margaret's high school sweetheart, who's a Merry Man too despite both bands being basically enemies. ("It's a bit like Romeo and Juliet. Without the double suicide. It's _really_ romantic." Mary Margaret's words, not hers.)

Beside that and sometimes going to the same parties, Emma doesn't know much about the Merry Men. Which makes '_the_ meeting', as Ruby would dub it later on, all the more unexpected.

She's late to her Women's Literature class, coffee in one hand and books in the other, walking as fast as possible, when someone bumps into her. She loses her balance and, between saving her coffee or her books, the choice is quickly made.

"Jerk," she mutters under her breath as she bends down.

"Here, let me help you."

She isn't sure what surprises her more – the Irish accent or that someone would willingly help her with something as mundane. She doesn't focus too much on it, though, because life isn't a romantic comedy and she refuses to fall into the trap that are foreign students – that is, until she meets his eyes. She doesn't gasp or do anything equally embarrassing, but she still stops in her tracks for a second there because she has never seen eyes so blue and so intense before.

Okay, maybe she gasps. Only a little.

"Thank you," is all she manages to say at first, standing up and hugging the books to her chest.

That's when she notices it – the unmistakable green hoodie they all wear, like some kind of uniform, like they want to prove they're not below the athletes on campus. Of course. Of freaking course she had to run into a _Merry Man_. Just her luck.

"You're welcome," he replies. "Are you one of the Sirens?"

He toys with the red neckerchief she tied around the strap of her bag – she refuses to actually _wear it_, but Regina insisted so bag it was – and Emma only finds herself nodding in a silent reply.

"I'll see you at the riff-off tonight, then." And then he's swaggering away with a final wink and grin above his shoulder.

It takes her a few seconds to realise she hasn't moved, hasn't spoken and _what the fuck just happened_.

…

("His name is Killian. He studies geography."

She isn't sure if it's all Ruby knows about him, but it's all she tells anyway.)

…

"Welcome to the riff-off!"

There are not a lot of places on campus for the singing nerds to gather, but Jefferson's voice booms around the walls of the old gymnasium, followed by the cheers of the audience – they have an audience, Emma can barely wrap her mind around the idea. Seems like a cappella groups are more popular than she thought at first.

The Sirens and Merry Men face each other, Mary Margaret kissing David one last time before going back to her own group – all of them blatantly ignoring the two other bands Emma neither knows nor cares about. In that moment, it's all about the competition between them as Jefferson goes on with explaining the rules of the riff-off. It's a bit ridiculous, glaring at each other like two armies ready to go into battle, but exhilarating too.

"And the first category is…" Jefferson spins the virtual wheel and can't help but bursts into laughter when it stops. "Songs ruined by Glee."

The guys don't miss a bit, like they've been waiting for that moment all their life, and jump in the middle of the circle formed by the different bands with infuriating grins as Robin takes the lead. Already, the audience is cheering and laughing, obviously entertained by the easy way of making fun of the stupid show.

"_Can anybody find me somebody to love…_"

Emma has to admit: the guy can sing, and they aren't half-bad at the chorus either. Which is all the more impressive on a Queen song, comes to think about it. But she doesn't really have time to linger on it, for Ruby grabs her by the arm and furiously whispers something in her ear – Emma simply nods, waiting for the right moment to jump in.

"_I have spent all my years in believing…_"

Regina cuts him off halfway through the line, her grin feral. But her magnificent "_Don't stop believin'!_" ends in a chuckle when Robin bows to her in mocking respect.

Still, David is quick enough to cut her "_streetlights, people_" off with John Lennon's Imagine and it goes downhill from there – they sure hold a grudge against the show, if anything else – until one of the other bands jumps in with Justin Bieber. Everyone else boo them until they're eliminated because, obviously, you can't ruin something that's already bad on its own.

The third group gets kicked off with the Famous Duets category, so only the Sirens and Merry Men are left - to the surprise of no one ever.

"Okay, guys. Last round is… Songs about sex!" Jefferson laughs, jumping up and down on the spot, before he quickly adds, "First one to use Blurred Lines is out!"

Not that people are really listening to him anyway, because Emma and Killian immediately make a run for it like their life depends on it. She only beats him by a second and doesn't even bother to hide her grin as she gestures for him to step back, the lyrics almost low and teasing in her mouth.

"_Hey Sister, Go Sister, Soul Sister, Go Sister…_"

It doesn't take long for Mary Margaret and Ruby to jump in, if only because their watching Moulin Rouge! only a week earlier had led to a rendition of the song – probably why it popped up in her mind immediately – while the other girls do a good job as background singers. As she's grinding against Ruby, Mary Margaret doing the same behind her, Emma can only smirk because it is the perfect song – not many opportunities for the guys to jump in and hijack their performance.

And what a performance they're offering, dancing and shaking their heads, hands in their hair and on their bodies. David's jaw is on the floor as he keeps staring at his girlfriend and, when Emma's eyes fall on Killian's, it's to the intense heat in his eyes as he stares right back at her. Body tense, like he's physically forcing himself not to move, he only licks his lips and stares, his thoughts more and more obvious with each passing second.

It really isn't a surprise that they finish the song without being interrupted, breaking into cheers before Jefferson even agree to their victories. Regina flicks Robin on the nose with a wicked grin while they all laugh and high-five and jump up and down.

Emma is about to join in, tempted to jump on Ruby's back as a payback for the activities fair, when someone grabs her wrist and, before she understands what is happening, she lands against Killian's chest as he wraps his arm around her neck. Her cheeks are warmer as she looks up at him and loses herself once more in the deep of his blue eyes – damn, being that attractive should be illegal, and she hasn't even heard him singing yet.

"You're so bloody unfair," he whispers, hot breaths dancing against her lips, before letting her go.

…

("So, are we going to talk about Emma's huge toner for Killian or what?")


	4. the crimes of love

"Jones." She enters the room, not even bothering to glance up from the file she's reading as she walks to the chair, brows furrowed. She doesn't even have to look at him to know he's grinning at her like a fool, and that thought alone has her roll her eyes as she sits down. "Hadn't seen you in a while, almost thought you'd finally gotten on the right side of the law."

"And miss our little tête-à-têtes? _Nay_."

Even if she manages not to reply to his quip – the last thing she needs right now is to throw herself into a battle of wits with him – her lips still curve into the tiniest of smirks. She can't help him if she loves their banter and how he keeps her on her toes at all times. Something not many men are able to do, may she add.

"So… You robbed a bank."

"Allegedly. I _allegedly_ robbed a bank, darling."

"Sure."

But that has always been the problem – in the almost ten years she's been working for the federal bureau, she's linked him to two dozens crimes, never able to lock him away. The man is a ghost, never leaving evidence behind him – not a single hair, not a trace of DNA, absolutely nothing. Emma still doesn't know if she hates him or admire him for that. Though, she has to admit, the fact that he stayed around the crime scene is new in his pattern – something is off with him, she can feel it.

"Why are you here, Jones? Beside wasting my time."

"I'm here to offer my help."

She can't help it – she snickers. "_You_ want to be come a CI?"

"I'm no snitch!" The pout he offers he is downright indignant, her smirk only growing bigger. "But you and I have a common goal."

"I'm listening."

He scratches his neck, looking away from her – is that really _nervousness_? – before his gaze settles on the surveillance camera above the door. "Off the record. And alone."

She hesitates for a second there, because this man is the textbook definition of cockiness, and this sudden change de demeanour throws her off a bit – whatever he has to tell her, it may be good, or dangerous, or both. With a sigh, she moves her hand in front of her throat in a back and forth motion until the red dot of the camera goes out, and then stares at the one-way mirror with a little tilt of the chin. She doesn't have to check, just knows Robin understood the message and left the room.

Jones glares at the camera for a second more before folding his arms on the table and leaning forwards – Emma finds herself mirroring him, as if he's about to reveal some deep secret she's only privy of.

"Gold," he says, almost too dramatically. Her eyebrows shoot in surprise at the mention of the criminal mastermind and _gosh Jones what have you done this time_. "You want him gone, don't you?"

"Of course we do. But why do _you_ care?"

Something dark settles in his eyes then, pupils so big they swallow away the blue and, for the first time, Emma sees the criminal behind the gentleman. It brings shivers down her spine, how dangerous he looks right now. It's the same man who has no qualm working with Pan's organization, fearless and feral. It should probably scare her – it has quite the opposite effect, actually.

"Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to, love."

"Look at you, afraid to hurt my feelings. Talk. _Now_."

He leans back against his chair, stretching his arms as he looks away and licks his lips, before leaning forwards again, closer. "He killed the woman I loved. Killed her right in front of my eyes and took everything from me. Trust me when I say I want him gone more than you do."

The confession comes as a surprise, and Emma's eyes widen a bit with his words. She always tries not to focus on the criminals' set of mind, if only not to empathise with their actions, but he just rubbed it in her face and she can't ignore it anymore. Killian Jones is a human being, with a past and feelings, with motivations she can only understand, not just the guy she's been playing cat and mouse with for years, and it turns her world upside down for a second or two.

"Anyway, I've been tracking him for months now, and I finally have a plan of action, but this isn't a one-man job so…"

"Why me?" She realises how misleading her question might be, but so does he if the little smirk is any indication, so she adds, "Why turning to the FBI when you could easily ask your network of petty thieves?"

He leans even closer, eyes burning in her with a sudden passion. "Because, strangely as it sounds, I trust you. And who knows, perhaps we'll keep working together after that."

Her chuckle is low as she shakes her head, barely believing his cockiness. "Sorry to break it to you, but life isn't a USA Network show."

He titles his head, obviously not missing the Matt Bomer comparison as she smiles sweetly, bottom lip stuck between his teeth – and, gosh, who allowed criminals to look that handsome seriously. "Is that a yes, then?"

"That's definitely not a no. Keep talking."


	5. once upon a date

"Come on, Emma. It's the 21th century, everyone does it!" Ruby had said as she gave her the name of the website, and that alone – _Once Upon A Date_ – should have been enough for her not to even check the thing in the first place. And yet here she is, staring at the cheesy website with an equality cheesy slogan about true love or some other bullshit, cursor hovering over the 'register' button as she bites on her nail and weighs the pros and cons.

In the ends, the pros – it's free and she's bored anyway – win and Emma finds herself pouring a large glass of wine before she starts typing her age and location, purposefully avoiding to upload a profile picture – the last thing she wants are some creeps harassing her for a one-night stand, thank you very much.

Which happens anyway, mind you, as she spends more time deleting gross messages from gross perverts than she does actually communicating with interesting bachelors living in the city. And when she does, when some guy actually catches her attention for more than thirty seconds, she's barely even surprised that they go MIA the moment she – surprise, surprise – mentions Henry.

She downs her glass at the next 'hey babe wanna have some fun ;)' as she curses Ruby and her oh so brilliant ideas. Seriously, she's not even that eager to find someone, not after the disaster that was her relationship with Walsh. She's actually about to give up and delete the account, because this was all a terrible mistake, when a new message appears in her askbox. Curiosity wins out.

_DashingRapscallion: "Let music sound while he doth make his choice; Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end, Fading in music." – The Merchant of Venice_

She stares at the unexpected message for a very long time – what kind of a user name is _that_ – who greets you with lines from _freaking Shakespeare_ – before she snickers to herself because it works, it actually has her intrigued by this stranger. Clever bastard.

_SwanSong: Do you always use the Bard to catch a woman's attention?_

She isn't exactly sure if it reads as flirty or sarcastic – or both, who knows with the Internet – but doesn't really care about it either. Still, his reply comes back only seconds later.

_DashingRapscallion: Only with a user name as intriguing as yours. And well, it did catch your attention, didn't it?_

_DashingRapscallion: The name is Killian, by the way._

When she helps herself to another glass of wine, it is for a whole different reason, leaning back against her chair with a smile on her lips. She opens his profile in a new tab, just to check, but he doesn't have a profile picture either, and only the basic info – male, 30, lives in Brooklyn. Nothing much, but perhaps it is for the best.

_SwanSong: I'm Emma. Nice to meet you._

_DashingRapscallion: Likewise. So, what do you do for a living?_

_SwanSong: I'm a bail bond person. You?_

She can feel herself being bad that this, the online small talk, and it makes her cringe, because it is all too ridiculous and she isn't supposed to care about the opinion of some stranger on the Internet. Especially some stranger she will never meet and who will probably stop replying in a couple of minutes.

_DashingRapscallion: I'm a musician. Well, composer, really. I write songs for TV ads and shitty reality shows._

_SwanSong: Nothing I've heard off?_

_DashingRapscallion: Know that cereal ad with the singing crocodiles? That was me._

_SwanSong: Holy shit, I hate it with a burning passion! My son kept singing it for days, it was driving me crazy._

She bites on the nail of her thumb, knowing it is the moment of truth – either he replies or she can say goodbye to the mysterious rapscallion that has her curious.

At the same moment, Henry comes back to reality between two Diablo quests and turns his head towards her to ask for some food. She glances at the clock in the kitchen before standing up to grab the menu on her fridge – it is Friday night and she's too lazy to cook, so pizzas it will be. Henry whoops before asking for his usual Margarita, and it takes her barely three minutes to dial the number and order.

By the time she settles back in front of her laptop, two new messages are awaiting her.

_DashingRapscallion: Oh, you're a mother._

_DashingRapscallion: How old is the lad?_

A fact and a question, which is always better than nothing – at least she didn't spook this one quite yet. Still she frowns at her screen, confused as to whether or not the question is a genuine one, whether or not this Killian guy actually cares enough about some stranger on this Internet to ask such a thing. She remains still for a few minutes, fingers hovering over her keyboard, as her brain screams that this is too personal already and that she should stop there, close the tab and forget about that catastrophic attempt at 21th century flirting.

_SwanSong: He's twelve. Got kids of your own?_

She hits 'enter' before she can second-guess what she's doing, almost immediately regretting it. She's not usually that reckless, especially not on the Internet – she knows how easily you can find someone with just a Facebook update all too well – and especially not when Henry is involved. This pseudo-anonymity doesn't suit her, and yet she keeps replying, like she can't exactly help herself.

She takes a large gulp of wine to wash out the strange feeling at the back of her throat, waiting for an answer that takes time to arrive.

_DashingRapscallion: Nay, I never got the chance. One day, maybe._

Whatever she plans on replying, something along the lines of _you're not like other men do you know that_, is forgotten when someone rings the bell, startling her away from her screen.

"Well, that was fast," Henry deadpans, not even looking away from his video game.

They eat their pizza in front of Cartoon Network, because they're just mature like that, and then Henry decides he hasn't crushed her at Mario Kart in a while and needs to change that. He spends the next hour beating her race after race until her pride can no longer take it and she settles on watching him play Diablo instead – he refuses to have her play along since he reached level 25, which she doesn't mind, really.

Emma only remembers her laptop once Henry is gone to bed, and she takes it, along with a nice glass of wine, to the couch with her, nestling with a blanket before she focuses back on the conversation she had earlier.

_SwanSong: Sorry. Still here?_

This might be wishful thinking, because it's literally been hours and, had she been in his shoes, she would have given up already. Which clearly makes the reply all the more unexpected and surprising.

_DashingRapscallion: Aye, love, still here for you._

It is way past 4am when she goes to bed, knowing more about him – he's Irish, moved to New York when he was seventeen and is an orphan just like her, among other things – and with one more Skype contact.

…

They establish rules quickly enough: no picture, no social network, no forcing the other into a date they're not ready for. As strange as it sounds, it works, and quite well may she add.

They don't speak every day but when they do it's for hours, once Henry is asleep and the apartment dark and silent. What is mindless small talk at first – subway was the worst this morning, you'll never guess what happened at Starbucks today, my boss is awful I want to kill him – turns more and more personal with each passing day. She feels her walls growing thinner, feels this almost stranger finding his place in her life, like he just belongs there, and it surprises her how little she cares. Perhaps because of the whole not-showing-my-face thing, perhaps because she could stop it all in a second if it becomes too dangerous, too personal, _too much_. But Emma never actually closes off, not with him.

And, just like that, the conversations are deeper, sharing secrets and untold confessions – it all starts when he asks if Henry's father is still in the picture and goes downhill from there. She tells him about Walsh and the failed proposal, learns about his brother in return, her childhood in foster family against his in an Irish orphanage, the Swans against his mother's death, Neal's betrayal against Milah's murder.

It is weirdly cathartic, letting a stranger take a good look at her soul.

…

_Killian: You know the best thing about being a musician? Many will tell you it's the first seconds on stage, or when the audience sings back to you – those people are horrible liars I'm afraid. The best moment comes after the show, when people come and speak with you, still a little sweaty and breathless from the singing along and the dancing. They have that sparkle in their eyes, like you helped them forget all their problems if only for an hour or so. It's so worth it._

_Killian: Tonight there was this lad, barely older than yours (should I be worried about him being out so late, by the way? probably), and he came to me after the show. We spent an hour or so talking about guitars and how to play and which songs were our favourites – I even showed him how to master Johnny B Good. And just the look in his eyes… I like to think an artist is born tonight. Perhaps the next Hendrix or Clapton? We'll see._

_Killian: Anyway…_

_Sending 3_

Emma laughs at the self-deprecation obviously shown in that last line and sent file, actually snorts in her cereals when she reads it, Henry throwing her a sideway glance before going back to his own breakfast. Still, she finds herself reading the few lines over and over again, fascinated – Skype says it was sent around midnight, and warmth spreads in her chest at the thought of him sending her this message the first thing he did going home last night. They've grown closer over the weeks, yes, but it still surprises her at times, how open they are to each other. She smiles around a mouthful of cereals before downloading the song and typing a reply.

_Emma: Aw, look at you, bro. All hoodie and fedora!_

_Emma: I didn't know you were playing live though. I just imagine you in a dark room, recording bad tunes and hissing at the outside world._

She knows he isn't online, the little yellow dot next to his name silently taunting her as he's still probably asleep even if his computer is still on – it is quite early, after all. Not for the first time, she finds herself trying to picture him, never agreeing with herself on the hair colour or facial features, even as she imagines him snuggling his pillow with a lazy yet satisfied smile.

And, not for the first time, Henry snaps her out of her thoughts.

It is the early evening when she sits in front of her laptop again, muscles sore from running after a perp and cheek now feature a nice bruise from being punched – never let it be said her job is a boring one. The blue Skype icon jumping up and down is a sight for sore eyes, really.

_Killian: Ay, I play at the Jolly Roger on Wednesdays and Fridays. You should come by once, if you feel like it._

_Killian: I will try not to take offense in you picturing me as some frat boy, by the way._

Even as she forces herself not to reply to the open invitation, a grin blossoms on her lips. And, well, if the song plays on repeat on her phone all week long when she's in the subway, it's just one of those things that happens.

(Gosh, does that velvet crooning voice do things to her. He's unfair.)

…

The little restaurant Ruby picked for them to have lunch is lovely for once, not too tacky or too expensive like most places she usually wants to try. Emma even has to admit it is _nice_, eating out in the back garden when the sun peaks out. She keeps smiling and laughing at Mary Margaret's streaks of bad luck in the planning of her wedding, teasing her about how it's a sign it isn't meant to happen. Her petite friend only makes faces at her, which has her laugh even more.

"Laugh all you want, but you still haven't told me if you're bringing a plus one or not."

"Her plus one is virtual," Ruby replies immediately, earning one threatening glare from Emma and a curious one from a clueless Mary Margaret.

Emma almost feels bad about not telling her best friend, especially knowing how close they usually are – she actually remembers the phone call only minutes after David proposed – but to be honest she has tried to keep… whatever is happening with Killian as low key as possible. Ruby only knows because Emma turned red at her seemingly innocent 'how's online dating?', unwanted body reactions be damned.

She's actually about to open her mouth, because she'd rather talk about it in her own words than have Ruby twisting the whole story to make it look more dramatic, when her phone starts buzzing. She grabs it, a grin curling up her lips only seconds later. Ruby sighs, as loudly as possible, and points an accusatory finger at her as she explains the situation to Mary Margaret.

"She met a guy online and now they're snapchatting like sixteen year-olds with a crush. It's disgusting. _You're_ disgusting, Emma Swan."

"We're not acting like…" But another buzz interrupts her and, pressing her finger to the screen, she can only snort at the picture that appears. Ruby points at her more furiously. "It's a serious and mature relationship between two adults… and he sends me silly pictures when he's bored, no big deal."

But, if Ruby's raised eyebrows and Mary Margaret's pensive pout are any indication, it does sound like a big deal. Not that it matters. Killian is funny and nice and always eager to lift up her moods at the end of a bad day, but that's it – nothing more, no date, no couple, no complication. Just two faceless people talking on the Internet. _No big deal_.

(She isn't sure whom she is trying to convince right now.)

"Is he at least cute?" Mary Margaret asks.

Ruby bursts into laughter and Emma folds her arms on the table to hide her face, leaving their friend even more confused. Not for long, though, as Ruby takes a perverse pleasure in taunting the blonde about the whole story. "That's the thing. _She doesn't know_. Never seen him, never sent a picture, _nothing_."

"Emma, honey, why would you do that?"

She's rather impressed by the lack of condescendence in Mary Margaret's tone, her voice laced with concern instead. Of course. Leave it to the most mature of the group to worry about perverts and sexually deranged on the Internet.

"It doesn't matter, okay? I'm not planning to meet him anyway."

As if on cue, her phone buzzes yet again – she'll have to talk to him about his addiction to Snapchat, seriously – and she grabs it once more, feeling more than seeing Ruby's victorious grin as she smiles at the picture he sent her – a fedora, with the mention 'bought it just for you'.

"Yeah. Sorry to break it to you, girl, but you're not fooling anyone."

"Am I the only one wondering what he looks like?" Mary Margaret asks, obviously unhelpful because, no, of course not she isn't, Emma spends hours lying in bed wondering which shade of blue his eyes actually are. Because they are blue, she just knows it.

"Well, just one way to find out," Ruby adds as she grabs her own phone.

Emma watches, helpless, as her friend googles Killian's name – why did she tell her his full name, _why_ – and waits for the page to load. It doesn't take long, her eyes widening all of a sudden, and she gapes between the screen and Emma. She feels a shiver down her spine, blood turning to ice in her veins, afraid to ask, to wonder, to see.

Mary Margaret doesn't share her issues, grabbing Ruby's wrist to tilt the screen and watch. "_Oh_. He's easy on the eyes." It almost makes Emma smile, how unwilling her friend is to agree that David might not be the only good-looking one on Earth.

"Understatement of the millennium."

It can only mean one thing in Ruby-talk: hot as fuck.

…

She is glad Henry is spending the night at Avery's when she comes back home so late the apartment is plunged into total darkness. She doesn't feel like turning on the lines, let alone cooking something, waddling to her bedroom only to fall face first on her bed with a groan of contentment. The heels are the first one to be thrown across the room, soon followed by her jacket and jeans, before she snuggles under the warmth of her blanket.

The apartment is oddly quiet, enough for her to hear the kitchen clock ticking, and it doesn't get long for it to get on her nerves – even the city that never sleeps feels like it has gone into a coma tonight. She sighs, trying for a few minutes to find a comfortable position to fall asleep before giving up and grabbing her phone on the bedside table. The bright light of the screen has her squint as she checks her emails, then Facebook, before playing some stupid game in hope it will finally wear her down – it doesn't.

Still, her mind is cloudy by exhaustion, which may explain why she finds herself going through her contact list, not second-guessing her actions as her thumb presses the 'dial number' button. He picks up after two rings.

"Emma?"

She feels her blood turning cold at her name on his lips, at hearing his voice, at the consequences of that phone call – it was only supposed to be a casual friendship on the Internet, she poured her soul to him and now she calls when she needs comfort, _what is happening_. She swallows, forces a smile into her voice.

"Hey. Hi. Sorry, I know I only have your number for emergencies but…"

"Don't fret, lass. You can call me whenever you want, I don't mind."

His accent is stronger than when he sings, Irish origins obvious in the lilt of his voice, and she lets that sooth her as she settles back against her pillow. This may be a mistake, and she will most likely deal with the consequences later, but she forgets all about it with a low sigh.

"Are you all right?"

She isn't even surprised by the concern in his voice – someone cares about her, how odd. "Yeah, yeah, just a long day, is all… My friend googled you today."

His laugh is low and deep, barely more than a chuckle. "Of course she did…" She rolls her eyes at his tone, at the underlining meaning behind his words. "Am I to your liking, milady?"

"I don't know. I refused to watch."

He only hums as a reply, perhaps a little dubious, and that's when she notices the sound coming from his side of the line – the muted but still distinctive melody of a guitar. She smiles to herself, imagining his phone stuck between his shoulder and cheek as his fingers play with the cords, but it calms her even more than his voice does, as they both remain silent for a while.

She somewhat recognizes the song he's playing, not enough to put a name on it though, but enough for her to closer her eyes and relax. "You're good, you know," she whispers as a secret, a confession. "You should fill Madison Square instead of writing for crappy ads."

His laugh misses the playful edge to it this time, almost cold. "I'd rather keep you company than have groupies throwing themselves at me, thank you very much."

She doesn't allow herself to dwell on his words – not now, later, she'll deal with all of that later – instead snuggling against her pillow and closing her eyes. "Yeah, you're stuck with me now."

"Mine is an awful fate."

Still he doesn't stop playing, the melody turning softer and slower, like he perfectly knows why she is silent – perfectly knows she's using him as her personal lullaby. His voice raises up after a few minutes, in a language she doesn't know – Gaelic? – and Emma turns on the speakers before hugging one of the pillows to her chest.

She wakes up in the middle of the night in a startle, only to find him still on the phone, still playing. She glances at the alarm clock on the window ledge, sleepy eyes widening when she realises it is way past three in the morning.

"Dude, you didn't hang up."

"No," he replies in a laugh. "You snore, by the way."

"Ah ah." She forces herself not to rub her eyes, if only to make sure she will fall back to sleep in a matter of seconds. "Good night, Killian."

"Aye…" The song slowly fades away, and she can hear him finally putting the guitar aside. "Oh, Emma?"

"Yeah?"

"Jolly Roger, tonight. First song will be dedicated to you."

"Yeah, we'll see. _Good night, Killian_."

"Sleep well, love."

(And when hours later she wakes up, there is only one consequence to be dealt with: _I'm falling for him_.)

…

_This is a mistake_, she thinks for the hundredth time as she orders her drink at the bar before sitting in a dark corner of the room. _Such a terrible mistake_.

She has left Henry alone with his Diablo and enough pizza to feed a whole regiment, all that in the name of meeting some guy she has met on the Internet. No, not some guy, she no longer kids herself, not after so many hours over the phone the night before. She can no longer pretend nothing is happening between them despite never seeing each other, can no longer pretend she doesn't like him to a certain extend – doesn't _love_ him already. So she sighs and takes a sip of her whiskey, ignoring the knot in her stomach – she's not a teenager with a crush, damn it, so why does her body insist on acting like one?

She's so focused on the text Ruby just sent her, knuckles turning white around her phone, that she's startled when she hears his voice in the microphone as he introduces himself. She doesn't move at first, afraid to turn her head and finally look at him, heart beating faster in her chest with each passing second.

"The first song is dedicated to a very special lady. I'm not sure if she's here tonight, but this is for her." He clears his throat before his fingers start plucking the cords, voice rising soon after. "_Get out your guns, battles begun, are you a saint, or a sinner?_"

She recognizes the song, if only because it's one of those Ruby likes to sing, especially drunk – one of those songs that stay with you, even when belt by your best friend in the middle of the night. And now he's singing it for her, _to her_, and that simple thought brings shivers down her spine as she slowly, finally, turns around to look at him.

_Easy on the eyes_, Mary Margaret has said and Emma has to agree with Ruby on that point – it is quite an understatement. He's a sigh to behold, red acoustic guitar on his lap and mouth so close to the microphone his nose is pressed against it, lost in the music. And yes, he _is_ quite handsome, with the scruff and the dark mope of hair and the piercing eyes – blue, just like she thought – and the, oh god, fedora on his head. (What a dork.)

The music fades away eventually and she finds herself clapping along with the other patrons as he scans the room, looking for someone – looking for her and_ gosh what is she doing here?_ The question comes back to haunt her, again and again, as he keeps playing songs after songs for an hour or so.

As if on cue, when people are still clapping and he leaves the stage, she receives a text from Ruby – 'go get him, tiger!' – that has her looking around just in case. But she doesn't find her friend and instead drinks her whiskey in one go, for good measure, before walking to the bar counter he now leans against, ordering his own drink.

"Killian?" she calls, ignoring the knots that are back in full swing in her stomach.

He turns around, the small frown on his brows disappearing as recognition flashes through his widening eyes. Hands in her pockets, she blushes as he takes her in, front head to toes and up again, and bites on her bottom lip with a small shrug – definitely a teenager with a crush. Still, his silence worries her, panicking thoughts crashing in her mind – oh gosh what if he doesn't like her – he's probably into brunettes – he's probably into women like Ruby – guys are always into women like Ruby –

"_Holy shit_."

She blinks up at him but he doesn't give her the luxury of being surprised by his curse as he offers her one dazzling grin, hand coming up to cup her chin. She leans against his touch with an uncertain, almost shy, smile of her own, drowning in the blue of his eyes. And then he's kissing her, soft and slow, a moan stuck at the back of her throat as she presses herself against him. His hand tangles in her hair, other arm around her waist, keeping her close, as he sighs against her mouth and bites on her lip to deepen the kiss.

They only break apart when the bartender clears his throat, startling them both, and Killian immediately grins down at her like a kid on Christmas morning. He puts his hat on her head with a nod of approval, grin turning into smirk, before he presses his lips to her, quickly, like he can't help himself.

"I'm not taking my eyes off you for a second now, love."

She can only grin back. "I'd despair if you did."

He kisses her again, bartender and public indecency be damned.


End file.
